


Bad Men

by crumbler



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Barebacking, First Time, M/M, Riding, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumbler/pseuds/crumbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt by the_miss_lv over at the SPN Kink Meme: There are lots of prompts with the older Jared/Jensen seducing the younger Jensen/Jared but never the other way around. Jensen is 14-18 and he knows he's a little twink, he sees the way men look at him and he doesn't mind, the attention helps him gain a new found self confidence. But even though men may look at him, Jensen not actually interested. The only one for him is Jared, who he's crushed on since he was like five. Jared can be his stepfather, neighbor, teacher, father's friend, man who kid's Jensen babysits, whatever annon wants as long as Jared is significantly older. Points for a Jared being very reluctant because of the age gap while Jensen just coaxes him in. Jared's always been so nice and thoughtful, so Jensen never expected him to be so rough and controlling in the bed, or that he'd love it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Men

**Author's Note:**

> Posted [here](http://krumbler.livejournal.com/1236.html) on livejournal.

Jensen's always known what men wanted from him. Mother always told him to be careful. Josh hovered over him at the candy store like a bad-tempered hurricane, twisting around to dole out glares and bare his teeth, waited to walk him home from school, always held his hand in the park for years. Father came into his room one day when he was 6, awkward, leaning his head against the doorjamb like he could melt into it, and told Jensen about naughty touches, about bad men, all things Jensen had already known.  
  
Jensen knows about those bad men. He knows their eyes don't rest on his lips as he absently sucks up the last of his milkshake noisily, or on the curve of his ass as he bends over the jukebox at the diner, out of mere affection. Those eyes stalk him like the hungriest of predators, sliding him out of his baggy hoodie, the thin shirt underneath, the loose-legged jeans, with every blink.  
  
He's always known why some men can never seem to stop touching him - fluttering fingers on his shoulder, like they've trapped the finest-boned bird in the cage of them; warm, huge, calloused hands sliding over the back of his neck just so; thumbs brushing slowly over his cheekbones, where the smattering of freckles seems to darken every year.  
  
When he was younger, there was a parade of huge hands - some calloused, some riddled with wrinkles, some with cold, heavy rings - reaching out for him.  
  
"What a lovely boy," someone would say or, "Five years old and already breaking hearts, aren't you?", and those hands would arrange him in the cradle of a lap and smooth over his thighs, and there'd be warm, wet breath misting against his nape, ruffling the hair there.  
  
He's seen it all - at soccer games, some dads tote cameras which follow him around when their wives look away; at school, his Mathematics teacher leans back against the desk and watches Jensen when he reaches up to scrawl formulas in chalk, back curving just the way Jensen knows he likes it; there's a lifeguard with a hairy chest and a belly at the pool whose whole shift revolves around Jensen every time he comes in for a swim.  
  
He's heard it all - his teammates huddled in the locker room when he came in earlier than he usually did, talking about his lips and his lashes, the bow of his legs; ragged breaths pressed up against the back of his head in crowded buses.  
  
When he's 12, he learns the smell of it - thick and musky under a kaleidoscope of scents. Sometimes it's heavy cologne, or a dash of aftershave from the man in the suit who always finds his way to Jensen on the subway; other times it's peppermint from the sweet Mr. Beaver's been sucking on before he came to check on Jensen in his favourite corner of the library, like he always does, like he never does anybody else; sometimes it's the scent of freshly laundered sheets at the dry cleaners where the man behind the counter always makes sure to brush his fingers against Jensen's when he's passing him Father's blazer, or Josh's newest suit for prom.  
  
He's 14 when the older boys and girls from school start inviting him to parties. The first time, Jensen could hardly believe it so he let Jeff from the college swim team take him by the wrist and lead him into the house, let him press cup after cup of punch into his hands until he felt hazy and loose and flushed, let Jeff lay him out on the couch, bend over him and press their lips together.  
  
Jensen lets Jeff pant into his ear, wet, moist, dirty words that trace the shell of his ear and make him tremble just like Jeff's hands carefully undoing the buttons of the shirt Mother picked out for him make him quiver and blink, dazedly.  
  
"Feeling hot, huh, buddy? Let's take this off, hey? You know I think you're the coolest kid in middle school, right? The coolest. The prettiest too, you know that, Jen?" and Jensen lets Jeff flick the lobe of his ear with his tongue.  
  
He lets Jeff thumb his nipples, lets him drag his tongue over them, then his teeth, and all the while he lets Jeff mumble in his ear, loud even with the thumping music around them: "God, Jen, soft, soft skin all over, aren't you? You gonna let me lick your nipples again? Can I lick your tits some more? So pretty and pink, Jen. How about that red, little mouth - can I have that too? Huh, Jen?"  
  
Jensen lets Jeff lick him under shirt, lets Jeff push his tongue into his mouth - even sucks on it for a while, moans brokenly a little, just enough for Jeff to groan right back into his mouth like an echo. He lets Jeff lift him by his underarms onto Jeff's lap - just like all those other laps, but this time he lets Jeff lift him up and down, lets Jeff lift his own hips and grind into his ass, lets Jeff gasp, ragged, into his ear and stiffen before he relaxes into a sprawl, pressing Jensen back against his chest.  
  
Jensen doesn't let him touch him under the waistband, doesn't let hi _inside_ , where he knows Jeff wants to be - that secret place Mother told him was just for him until he found the right man, a nice man, that hot, cramped place he slid a curious finger into just last week when he woke up one Sunday morning with his cock straining against his briefs. Jensen just tilts his head back to brush a kiss against Jeff's cheek, spiky with stubble, swivels his hips down once, twice over Jeff's sticky lap. He hears Jeff groan in his ear, but he shrugs Jeff's arm off and gets up off the couch on shaky legs, buttons his shirt up the wrong way, and walks out the door so he can hitch a ride home with one of Josh's classmates who never bats an eyelid and never breathes a word to Josh as long as Jensen keeps looking at him that way, shy, from under the fan of his lashes, as long as Jensen leans in some times and laughs into his shoulder, and tells him Jensen loves him, and he's always been Jensen's favourite.  
  
Jensen's been around bad men all his life, seen them in the shadows, in the hallways of school, across his parents from dinner table with their wedding rings and their tow-headed children, and he's been practising since he was five, reeling them in slowly, with little smiles on lips stained with blueberry pancakes, with fat, hot tears after skinned knees, and pushing them away ever time he knows things could go too far. Or when he gets bored - which he always does.  
  
Because what Mother doesn't know, or Father, or Josh, or Mac even, is that Jense _has_ ound the right man. The nicest man. And once Jensen reels him in just like he did the others, he'll keep this one.  
  
Mr Padalecki was just his best friend's daddy at first. Their families lived right beside each other so Jensen saw him every single day, and it was a small town, so Jensen saw him everywhere. Mr Padalecki wasn't like most other dads. He had a secret candy section in the fridge and Jensen was always bumping into him at the candy store, where Mr Padalecki would buy him an extra bag of gummy worms; his hair was longer than any other dad Jensen had seen, and it was so smooth and s _shiny_ ; he laughed like he was having convulsions and smiled till he dimpled and lifted his leg up and farted all over the house and he even let Jensen and Chris stay up late watching zombie movies with him when they were seven; he didn't live with his wife, didn't have a heavy ring circling any of the fingers on this big, broad hands - and Jensen had loved him, secretly, crazy with longing, since he was five.  
  
When Jensen had woken up the night of his first sleepover curled up in a sleeping bag on Chris' bedroom floor, and felt his briefs sticking to his thighs, the hot, dampness still trickling, he had burst into tears. Mother and Father has been trying to break that, and it had been three weeks since he last woke up, legs swaddled in wet sheets, that burning shame making his cheeks flush and his eyes tear, and his breath escape in moist, rattling gasps.  
  
He was a big boy now, though, so he quietly crawled out of the sleeping bag, carefully, so Chris wouldn't wake, and wiggled out of his wet briefs, wadding them up loosely in the palm of his hand and making way to the toilet just down the hallway. He was a big boy now, so he kept his sniffles as soft as he could, tried to swallow down the choking sobs so they rose as little hiccups instead. His thighs kept sliding against each other, sticky, with every step, and he couldn't see anything - eyes all wet with tears, and nose starting to get stuffy with mucus.  
  
The door to Mr Padalecki's room swung open just a crack, just enough for Mr Padalecki to poke his head out through the sliver of light streaming out of his room, and blink at Jensen.  
  
"Jensen?" he asked, softly. He shook his hair out of his eyes and Jensen burned with shame, knew Mr Padalecki could see him, one palm clawed against the wall, the other nursing his stained briefs, could see him with his nose starting to run so Jensen could taste the saltiness beading above his upper lip, could see his teary eyes, and he would know what Jensen had done - just inches away from where Chris slept - how dirty Jensen was.  
  
"I'm suh- suh- sorry, Mr Padalecki. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to be dirty. Suh- sorry," Jensen had choked out, feeling hot tears spilling over down his cheeks, and flinched away, embarrassed, when Mr Padalecki stepped out of the room. But all Mr Padalecki did, was rest his huge, warm hand on the back of Jensen's neck and squat down, tilting Jensen's face up with his other hand. All he did was rub the tears away with his thumbs, rough like a cat's tongue, and poke Jensen in the cheek with a finger.  
  
"Hey, hey, Jensen. It's all right, sweetheart. It's okay. It was an accident. How about we get you into the toilet, get you cleaned up. Not feeling too good right now, are you, darling?" and he wrapped one of Jensen's hands in that hand of his - that big, warm hand Jensen would dream about and pine over for years and years and years when he was older - and took him into the toilet, washed him clean, and crooned at him, soft, comforting sounds Jensen couldn't understand through his tears and his shame. He washed Jensen's briefs and hung them up to dry, gave Jensen a pair of Chris' boxers to slip into which swished around his knees like a skirt, cleaned out the sleeping bag, and took him down to the kitchen for some hot chocolate and a noisy packet of ruffled crisps.  
  
They sat on the couch in the living room and Mr Paladecki told him all about when he was little - how could such a big, big man ever be little like Jensen? - he wet his bed too, that Jensen wasn't the only one, and it wasn't dirty, and he was so good, trying so hard for Mother and Father. Mr Padalecki told him about camping when he was little, and how his own daddy used to catch fish with his bare hands and smoke them by the river, and they watched DVDs of old cartoons, and giggled at each other, trying to stop the packet of crisps from rustling and waking Chris up.  
  
"Thank you, Mr Padalecki," Jensen had told him, shyly, trying to hide in the corner of the couch. And Mr Padalecki had laughed, and dragged Jensen right into his lap and wrapped his arms around him like a snake and rested his chin on the top of Jensen's head, and called him a sweetheart, and wasn't Chris lucky to have a best friend like him.  
  
Jensen sat there, in the circle of Mr Padalecki's arm, smelling hot chocolate and feeling the soft, soft strands of Mr Padalecki's hair against his cheek, and the big, muscled arms Chris always said he would have one day, just like his daddy. He listened to Mr Padalecki ramble on about how Jensen's mother made the best Thanksgiving turkey, and how was Josh, and did Jensen like gummy bears or pop tarts or cheeseburgers.  
  
Nobody really talked to him much. They stared at him, touched him, talked at him, about how pretty he was, and did he like candy, and what precious little lips he had, what soft cheeks, what lovely freckles.  
  
It was so safe there, curled up in Mr Padalecki's lap with the lights from the TV strobing over the two of them - nothing at all like those other laps, with the curious hands stroking over his thighs, again and again and again. Mr Padalecki's hands just scrabbled around inside the packet of crisps, or extended in front of them to demonstrate how his own dad had skinned a rabbit and Jensen just sat there, still, afraid to even move, and loved Mr Padalecki - loved him, loved him, loved him with everything in him.  
  
Jensen had waited ten years since that night - and he would have waited more. He had planned to wait more, till he was 18, or maybe 20 and halfway through college, when Mr Padalecki would stop seeing him as Chris' best friend, the little boy who peed in his briefs and cried, but he had to move quick.  
  
15 wasn't that young anyway, and Jensen was sure he could please Mr Padalecki - he'd learnt to kiss from older boys and working men, how to shape his mouths around theirs and coax their tongues into his mouth, he knew what they really wanted from his lips but would never get, he knew seeing him in gym class with his shorts brushing over the top of lean white thighs made men and boys alike leak in their pants, he knew how to make a man come undone with his hips and his hands, and the flutter of his lashes over his eyes, knew how to coax an orgasm out with just his voice - pleading wantonly for them to touch him, tongue his mouth, let him ride them (pants on, his ass rubbing and rubbing and rubbing against the tent in their jeans), please, please rub your cock against me, let them nestle their hot, thick erections in the crack of his ass, separated by layers of fabric; letting out those shattered little moans he couldn't help in the throes of pleasure, the ragged screams he tried to muffle in the crook between shoulder and neck. He could please a man, and there was no man he wanted to please more than Mr Padalecki.  
  
So, when that new divorcee with the fake breasts moved into town, setting up her lair of depravity right across the street from Mr Padalecki and started coming over with pie, and for sugar, went out for morning jogs in her sports bra timed just right so she could bump into Jared on his way out to work, an _oh, look, I've locked myself out, silly me_ hile Jensen watched from his bedroom window, he knew he had to stake his claim.  
  
He knew the small things worked the best - that it drove men crazy when they discovered they could come apart just from Jensen dragging his tongue messily all over his lips, or when he dripped ice-cream down his chin on hot days. They'd grind him onto their laps and grunt out "You little slut, you know what you're doing don't you - your tongue, fuck. Your fucking tongue licking up that mess you made, all over your chin. You know what it looks like. Gonna get my cock between those lips, make the same mess you made, and you'll love it. You've been waiting for it, haven't you?"  
  
Of course Jensen knew, and of course he'd been waiting for it - but not fro _them_ , not from any man, not from the parade of bad men who made their way into his life like an oil spill, tried to get their hands into his pants, up his hole to make way for their cocks.  
  
So, Jensen started with the little things. He hung around Chris' house every day after school. They'd shoot hoops in the backyard, play with water guns on hot days, do their homework while watching TV. Mr Padalecki had a job as a mechanic the past few years, and he'd come home with sweat stains under his arms, his shirt wet and clinging to his broad, broad back. He'd smell like gas and gasoline and salt, and he'd still be dripping sweat from his hair after short drive back from his house - and the first thing he'd do would be to call for Chris and Jensen as he unlocked the front door, like Jensen was meant to be in the house, waiting for him like a wife, every time he got home.  
  
The appearance of the new divorcee threw a wrench in that. Some days, she'd be lurking in the driveway, waiting for Mr Padalecki to pull up in his beat up little car. Jensen would watch from the window right beside the door, where he always was five minutes before five, five days a week, while Chris would shrug and stomp up to his bedroom to strum his guitar idly after throwing Jensen a "Dude, you're not his wife. Just come up and hang out for a while instead of pressing yourself up against the front door waiting for him." or a "Give dad a kiss for me when he gets back, mommy."  
  
The woman would pounce on Mr Padalecki once he stepped out of the car, cornering him with her fast-moving lips - those slick, glossy pink lips - and her breasts, and a pastry of some sort which Jensen knew she'd nipped out to the baker's to buy, and Mr Padalecki would blink at her, and humour he because he was nice. He was nice to everybody, Jensen realised, and it made his heart ache - twist almost physically in his chest - every time he saw Mr Padalecki offering his grin up easily as anything, or offer the crook of his arm, that sweet little bend in the midst of all that corded muscle, to ladies and children.  
  
When she finally cleared out of the driveway and was safely ensconced in her house, where nobody else except her angry-looking chihuahua had to suffer through perfume fumes and potentially being crushed to death by cleavage, Jared (who always leaned against his car and watched her till she was safely back home - as if any car could mow her down on the street on her way back without denting their fender on her breasts) would run a hand through his hair, tired, and sigh. He no longer ran up the stairs and threw open the front door, whipping his head around to grin at Jensen. He'd take the steps up to the front door in a slow, ambling gait, and when he opened the door, he'd chuck the keys onto the sidetable, and only remember Jensen when he turned and saw him there, smiling shyly. Mr Padalecki would reach a hand out then, and clap Jensen heavily on the shoulder with a wry grin in return.  
  
Jensen started wearing his gym shorts over to Chris', and his worn gym t-shirts, butter-soft, with the wide, loose collar offering the view of his collarbones like a sacrifice. He loved his gym shirts, knew they offered the best view of his nipples, straining pink and stiff against the white material and he knew what his nipples did to some men. They'd spend minutes on them, nipping, licking, pinching and rolling, sucking on them so hungrily Jensen wondered if they expected fat droplets of milk to well up to the surface. There was a man, the father of a boy he was working with for a class project, who liked dragging his beard across them, watching them pucker with every pass of his chin, liked hearing Jensen's cries to stop, please, it tickles, you'll make me come like this, I don't want to dirty my briefs, please, please. He'd heard men whisper dirtily to his nipples, call them his tits, talk about how ripe they looked, or how sweet they were, are they blushing just for me, Jenny?  
  
So the weekend his parents are off to his grandparents with Mac, and Josh is out with his girlfriend, Jensen packs his gym shirts into his overnight bag and accosts Mr Padalecki on Saturday morning with the sight of his smooth, white thighs and his pink nipples, the tempting glimpse of them behind the gauze of his shirt, in the kitchen where Mr Padalecki is chugging down a pot of coffee one-handed.  
  
Jensen makes sure to stretch when he yawns, raising the shirt just a little, just enough to show his belly, where hairs are starting to sprout, the tops of his hipbones. He makes sure to scratch at his thigh idly, sliding the leg of his shorts up, up, up so Mr Padalecki can see the muscles of his inner thigh, the shape of it. And because he loves Mr Padalecki, he adds in a special - presses himself against the kitchen table opposite Mr Padalecki, places his palms flat on the surface and leans over a little to peer up at him. He knows his eyes are beautiful in the sunlight, and his freckles look darker, and his gaping collar will slip over one shoulder.  
  
"All right there, Mr Padalecki? Looking a little peaked this morning." he asks, and raises a hand to press against the side of Mr Padalecki's face, where the stubble scratches against his palm and blinks up at him softly. "Anything I can do for you?"  
  
Mr Padalecki adds more blinking to his repertoire, then raises his coffee pot and gulps the remnants down like a man dying of thirst. Jensen leaves the table and bends over inside the fridge, reaching down to the lowest shelf for milk, feeling his shorts pull taut against his ass, riding up at the back to expose just the shyest glimpse of the curved muscle where his ass meets thigh. Mr Padalecki makes a noise like a dying man and splutters a bit.  
  
"Uh... shorts," he's saying a little incoherently. "Aren't you cold?"  
  
"Was a hot night," Jensen replies. "Woke up burning all over. My thighs were all sticky with sweat. I was sticky all over, really."  
  
The way Mr Padalecki's eyes drag down his thighs makes Jensen want to perch his own ass on the kitchen table and wrap his thighs around Mr Padalecki's hips.  
  
"Dude," comes Chris' voice from the doorway, and just like that all the simmering heat evaporates as Mr Padalecki's eyes widen and drag right back up and away from Jensen. "Those shorts make you look like jailbait. Put that ass away."  
  
Jensen turns to level a glare at his best friend, who rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, have fun with Jen today dad. I'm off for band practice in a bit. See you two crazy kids later!"  
  
When Jensen turns back to Mr Padalecki, he's already banging two pans on stove, and juggling a few eggs with that easy smile back in place, asking how many eggs Jensen wants for breakfast, and wanna help him wash the car?, and Jensen knows he'll have to bring out the big guns.  
  
Jensen loves Mr Padalecki but, really, he's just a little too nice, just a bit too sweet. So unsuspecting - like divorcees rubbing their breasts against him and Jensen wearing his pedobait shorts with his ass cheeks hanging out weren't increasingly desperate cries t _hellooo_ , please fuck me already. So damn stupid it made things kinda easy. He should have folded that long, broad body into his car, told Jensen oh would you look at that something cropped up at work, so please entertain yourself - how about a movie? - if he didn't want the Saturday to end the way Jensen knew it would.  
  
Treating Jensen just like he had before - just a kid, just Chris' best friend - meant the whole Saturday Mr Padalecki had planned for the both of them was the perfect set-up for seduction, really. And Jensen was pretty much out on the prowl, all out.  
  
He calls Chris on his phone and tells him, you owe me a favour for writing that essay for you, so you gotta stay out late tonight, okay, Chris?  
  
"Dude, I know. I ain't gonna come home when I know my dad's gonna be dicking you all over the house. Just call me when you're all done and it's safe for me to come home. ...Ugh _come_ ome. I think I'm gonna barf. And he's an old man, Jen, so don't break him, you complete and utter slut. I kinda need him to pay for college, just so you know. Actually, maybe you should sex him up good so he'll get me a new guitar or something. Just use your magical pedo-gobbling ass or something," Chris says, which is why he's Jensen's best friend.  
  
It's a hot morning when they start on Mr Padalecki's car, so that makes it perfectly fine for Jensen to wind the hose around his wrist and spray himself with it, let water cascade right down on him, let his lips get glossy and slick, his lashes clump together and bead with the tiniest droplets of water - like jewels, his soccer coach had told him when he had Jensen bent over his knees in the empty locker room and had spanked him with a hard, unforgiving palm through his shorts for missing the penalty, you crying for me, baby?, just gonna make wanna work your ass over harder, again and again, to see those tears, Jenny, does it hurt?  
  
Mr Padalecki had been assiduously polishing the sideview mirror, where Jensen saw himself reflected, for the past few minutes, which is flattering, and sort of sweet that Mr Padalecki thinks staring at Jensen while pretending not to stare makes it any less obvious.  
  
Jensen's nipples are already peaking under his shirt in response to the cold water, and he's so horny after seeing Mr Padalecki sponging the car down gently with hands so big they should be clumsy. Jensen just really wants to slide those hands up over his own body, even doesn't mind using his own fingers to play with his nipples, pinch them till his cock twitches - they're aching so badly for the touch of a finger or of a tongue, maybe some stubble so it burns just the way he likes. He sort of settles for rubbing them against the door of the car subtly as he sponges it down, and tells Mr Padalecki: "It's such a hot day, Mr Padalecki, isn't it? I swear I'm all hot all over. Feels like i'm burning from the inside out, urgh. If my skin's this hot, how hot do you think it is inside me, huh?"  
  
Mr Padalecki almost slips on the sidewalk, which he's almost done a lot while the both of them have been washing the car, but, hey, Jensen thinks, you don't let the horny 15-year-old who's been in love with you for pretty much a decade wash your car without expecting some sort of Paris Hilton routine all over it. This time he excuses himself, stuttering a little, and wringing those thick fingers a lot.  
  
"I feel a bit peaky, buddy - got to be the sun and old age acting up on me. Mind finishing my baby off while I nip back inside? I'll get some food in you when you get back in," says Mr Padalecki - sweet and stupid as always, because Jensen doesn't want a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches in him even if Mr Padalecki's are the best. He tries to shuffle away, which is adorable - seeing that mountain of a man bent nearly in half and hobbling ad though that would hide the outline of his giant dick pressed up against his trousers instead of draw attention to it.  
  
Jensen doesn't really do seduction - he didn't usually need tactics or strategies, didn't usually spend the night planning out how to get a man to haul him onto his lap, to palm the curves of his ass and lick his wet, hot mouth wide open. Seduction was built into him, not something to be deliberated over. He'd learnt how to get men up since he was small, just hip-high and still clutching tight to Father's thighs, when he saw how men licked their lips when he licked his own, or how their breaths got hotter when he wiggled in their laps, how when he smiled, they smiled back, helplessly, widely, as though they couldn't believe Jensen could be looking at them.  
  
He always knows what to do, knows what will happen next, so it's hard to get his mind around why Mr Padalecki doesn't just throw him into the backseat of the car, lick his nipples through his sopping shirt, and feed Jensen dick through his mouth or hole - Jensen's not picky.  
  
Jensen's a little grumpy as he hoses the whole car down, pressing a palm against his nipple where it feels puffy, like he's so desperate and horny his come's started leaking out of him.  
  
When he gets back in, Mr Padalecki is mixing up a jar of lemonade and has a plate of sandwiches ready. The big smile he offers Jensen is a little embarrassed and Jensen wonders if it's because Mr Padalecki was jerking off in the toilet thinking of him, dragging that big, rough palm over his cock.  
  
Mr Padalecki doesn't press Jensen against the dining table, or the sink, or the refrigerator, and Jensen is getting antsy. When they eat, they chat just like normal - Mr Padalecki doesn't try to lick at Jensen's ear or try to get him out of his chair and into Mr Padalecki's lap. Mr Padalecki even passes him a popsicle from the freezer after lunch, just like normal, like he's not passing Jensen a phallic symbol on a stick to feast on after Jensen's rubbed his nipples all over his car and his sex appeal all over Mr Padalecki's face.  
  
This time Jensen eats the popsicle like he's cramming his mouth full of cock. He laps at the tip with the point of his tongue, lets the pink muscle slither its way from the tip to the base of it before he sucks it into his mouth and down his throat. He nurses it in his throat for so long, he can feel himself going a little dizzy, feel his cheeks start to burn as his lungs burn for air. When he drags his throat off the popsicle, tugs it out of his mouth, it leaves the circle of his lips with a noisy pop. The sound is so filthy, Jensen can't help but moan and lift his hips a little under the table.  
  
"That was delicious. Really needed that. You always know what I need Mr Padalecki," Jensen says shyly, between broad licks of his tongue.  
  
Mr Padalecki twitches in his chair, and Jensen gets ready to be pounced on. He's already contemplating whether Mr Padalecki will slide his cock down Jensen's throat, or just rub it over his lips, drag the messy tip all over Jensen's face to let his precome cover every single one of Jensen's freckles, or if he'll press his cock up Jensen's hole straight away.  
  
When Mr Padalecki starts cleaning up noisily, stammering about watching a movie, Jensen can't help but bite through half of his popsicle with frustration.  
  
It has to be some kind of giant cosmic joke that Jensen can make all the men he feels nothing but a vague sense of pity for, a short-lived, heady rush of power over, fall to their knees for the chance to touch him or have him touch them, and here he is with Mr Padalecki who he's actually gone through lengths to seduce, being completely and utterly shut down with every deliberate shake of his ass.  
  
Maybe he's unappealing - after all he's older now, and some men don't bend as easily to his will or his voice, roughening with age; the muscles that threaten to harden the smooth, endless lines of his arms and legs, the softness of his belly; how his limbs are beginning to lengthen and some men struggle to contain all of him in the cage of their arms now, like never before. Maybe he's not as pretty as he used to be now, not pretty enough for Mr Padalecki to keep him and love him.  
  
"Mannn, it's karma, Jen," Chris had told Jensen one of the nights he was sleeping over, head poking out over the edge of his bed. "If you're gonna walk around making guys come in their pants, and wander off right after that lik _ooh, I don't care, I just have a quota of sperm to milk out of people_ , you're gonna get served. The universe doesn't like cockteases, Jen."  
  
Jensen has done nothing but been a cocktease all Saturday long, but Mr Padalecki is still this humongous stone wall (covered wit _uhn_ , beautiful tanned skin, sweating away like he always does, even when he's doing absolutely nothing but eat popcorn noisily, oh god Jensen's gonna start leaking from his ass in sheer desperation or something).  
  
Jensen's done everything except tug his shorts down - or tug them up just those few inches over his ass cheeks - and sit on Mr Padalecki's cock. He's been so horny the whole day, he's wanked in the toilet twice, stuffing his own fingers up his ass and stealing one of Mr Padalecki's faded shirts from the laundry basket to hold up to his nose.  
  
He's licked and sucked on so many things he can't even remember a time when his mouth wasn't full and his lips swollen; he's run through his whole repertoire of outrageously bad innuendos so that he's even resorted to dipping into Chris' stash; he's pressed nearly every part of him against Mr Padalecki from where they're tucked up against each other in the ratty two-seater which has probably been around even before Jensen was born.  
  
Mr Padalecki's eyes heat, his gaze lingers, and he chokes on his words like he can't help it, chokes on his tongue like he's trying to stop it from sliding right out of his mouth to touch Jensen's own, but he never does anything every other man's done to Jensen.  
  
It's almost nightfall and the light in the room is a little red, a little purple where it sneaks in through the window and Jensen can't stop looking at Mr Padalecki, has graduated from glances from the corner of his eyes, to pretty much staring at the man.  
  
Mr Padalecki watches movies like he wants to get sucked right into the television screen, and Jensen had thought that succeeding in dragging Mr Padalecki's eyes a record number of times off hoardes of teenagers being hacked to death meant he was getting to the man - but his shorts are still on, and Mr Padalecki's pretty much still munching on popcorn like he doesn't know how many uses Jensen has for that mouth of his.  
  
So Jensen turns the TV off, shoves the giant bowl of popcorn off his rightful place in Mr Padalecki's lap and waits for Mr Padalecki to stop spluttering and trying to hack popcorn out of his windpipe.  
  
It's a really nice lap - the nicest lap Jensen has ever been in. Jensen could stay there for hours, for days, just perched there, shifting a little so he can feel the muscles in Mr Padalecki's hard, huge thighs twitching, so he can hook his arms around Mr Padalecki's neck and stare him in the face - the closest he's been to it since he was 11 and Mr Padalecki stopped lifting him and Chris up, tossing them around the house to hear them giggle.  
  
It looks just the tiniest bit different now. He's still the handsomest man Jensen's seen, but his eyes are tired and there are little frown lines that shouldn't be swarming his mouth - maybe from the three years he spent trying to juggle two jobs to save up for Chris' tuition - and Jensen just wants to lick them away, tiny kitten flicks of the tongue, and make Mr Padalecki happy.  
  
"You're a little too big for my lap, buddy," Mr Padalecki ends up saying, jokingly, but it makes Jensen flinch to hear those words.  
  
Of course. Too big, too old. Maybe Jensen shouldn't have worried about being old enough to please Mr Padalecki, maybe it had been wrong to listen to Chris when he said "Hold on there Jailbait Jenny, you gotta let the pedofairy grant you a few more years before you start trying to bang my dad. He'll just freak out, you know?", maybe he'd lost his chance a few years back, back when he was still small enough to clamber into a lap and have men gather his small body into their arms.  
  
Jensen actually starts tearing in frustration, leaning forward to tuck his head under Mr Padalecki's chin, to press his hot cheek against that expanse of throat, feeling tears leak out the corner of his eyes.  
  
Mr Padalecki's arms wrap around Jensen a little awkwardly, one big palm coming up to run up and down Jensen's back soothingly, gently, like he's patting a trapped bird made out of bones so fine they'd shatter with a careless touch. "There, there, Jen. It's okay, buddy, it's gonna be fine," he says, a little confused, in that voice of his, rich and thick like hot chocolate melting all over Jensen.  
  
"It's not. It'll never be fine," Jensen kind of whispers into Mr Padalecki's neck, and just presses his face into Mr Padalecki's neck, breathes him in, and cries, and cries, and cries with shuddering gulps.  
  
Mr Padalecki just sits there and holds him close - the only way Jensen will ever be this close to Mr Padalecki, the very last time - and strokes his back, pats his hair, lets Jensen cry himself boneless, lets him cry until his nose is blocked and he's snuffling and sniffling and thinking about how unsexy it is to rub strings of mucus all over Mr Padalecki.  
  
Jensen lets Mr Padalecki peel his gross, sticky face, gooey from tears and snot and saliva, away from his neck, and tilt Jensen's face up to his.  
  
"You gonna tell me what's wrong, buddy?" he asks.  
  
"I love you," Jensen tells him, and Mr Padalecki blinks down at him, confused, that floppy hair falling into his eyes. Mr Padalecki's body has gone stiff all over, rigid, except for where his mouth is slack with shock, or disgust. Mr Padalecki's mouth struggles to move a litte, to shape out a response, but Jensen clamps it back shut with sticky fingers. Mr Padalecki kinda squints at him then, a furrow growing between his brows, like Jensen is going crazy - which Jensen kinda is, but see how you'd cope with having the man you've loved since you were 5 never, ever love you back.  
  
"I love you," Jensen decides to tell him again, because insanity is doing the same things over and over again and expecting different results, expecting Mr Padalecki to kiss him and hold him and love him instead of just sit there with his arms fallen to his side.  
  
And so Jensen desperately, crazily says it again and again, setting the words to motion now - pressing his moving lips against Mr Padalecki's forehead, the corners of those slanted eyes, his eyelids, his cheeks, then, lips trembling, to the corner of Mr Padalecki's mouth. He rests his lips on Mr Padalecki's ear and whispers the words again and again like a prayer.  
  
"I love you, I love you, Mr Padalecki, love you, love you, love you. I've loved you since that night when I was five and I wet the sleeping bag, remember? And you found me in the hallway and wiped my tears away, and fed me hot chocolate, and ruffled crisps which my parents never get me, and told me about how your father skinned a rabbit, and you put me on your lap and held me. Love you, love you, love you, Mr Padalecki, really, really love you. I've loved you for ten years, and you're always so nice, and you always make me laugh, and I even love that you're the gassiest person on earth, and the sweatiest, and even though Chris says you have emo hair because you're having a mid-life crisis, I love your hair too, and I don't want you to be alone anymore - I can make you happy, or I could, or I really want to, and I've wanted to love you for ten years, Mr Padalecki. But maybe now I'm too old, and I'm not pretty enough anymore, and I know you don't have to let me, of course you don't have to do anything at all - but please, could I keep on loving you? I won't touch you anymore, and I'll won't stick around and try to make you dinner in time for you to get home and end up burning all your eggs and your pans, and everything, but, please, Mr Padalecki, maybe, if you wouldn't mind it terribly, could I just... stay here, like this, on your lap for a while, and even if you don't love me, maybe you can just pretend to - just for a while, just hold me for a while?"  
  
Jensen still has his mouth - that useless mouth that every man but Mr Padalecki seems to want - pressed up against Mr Padalecki's ear when he finishes, and it's such a lovely ear - Jensen could spend a lifetime rubbing his lips against the shell of it, feeling Mr Padalecki's hair poke against his cheek and his nose, that it's a bit of a surprise to have that pretty, pretty ear with its earlobe - fat and so soft-looking, like it's begging for Jensen to lick it and tug it into his mouth and nibble on it - ripped right away from him, to have his breath feather out against the wet _hot_ nside of a mouth instead.  
  


It feels a little like he's drowning. Jensen's lungs burn, his cheeks flush, he can't breathe properly - not out his nose, still a little stuffy with snot, not out his mouth where Mr Padalecki's tongue has taken up residence, not that he needs to breathe now that Mr Padalecki,  _Mr Padalecki_ , is kissing him so desperately Jensen can hear the squelch of spit and wet lips, can feel strings of saliva stretching between them each time Mr Padalecki draws back only to descend again, a huge hand cupping one side of Jensen's face, his other hand wrapped around both of Jensen's wrist, pulling his arms tight over his head, holding him still so Mr Padalecki can plunder him effortlessly, dip his tongue into Jensen again and again.  
  
He's drowning - he has to be, battered by the waves of heat rolling Mr Padalecki's body, clinging by his lips and his teeth to Mr Padalecki's tongue in an effort to keep himself afloat.  
  
Jensen's tasted many mouths - guarded by chapped lips, or thin lips, or thick, wet lips, like sausages. He's tasted the insides of countless mouths, felt the grooves of teeth, ran his tongue softly over the sensitive palate, but it's never been anything like this. Mr Padalecki still tastes like caramel popcorn, and when Jensen lets himself flick his tongue into Mr Padalecki's mouth, shy, hardly daring to believe he can, he dislodges a little chunk of popcorn that's gotten itself lodged between Mr Padalecki's teeth and swallows it right down.  
  
Then there's Mr Padalecki's chest, which keeps rubbing against his own - their nipples catching on each other's, Jensen's feeling so plush and soft and swollen, like Mr Padalecki's nipples, hard like the rest of him, could sink into them, slide right into the puffy tips, right into Jensen.  
  
Mr Padalecki is sweating on him, all over him, that giant hand cradling Jensen's cheek, manhandling Jensen's face to tilt him left and right, up and down so Mr Padalecki can slide his tongue around Jensen's mouth from every angle physically possible, Mr Padalecki's upper lip beading sweat - salty little droplets Jensen keeps wanting to catch, moaning and moaning and kissing them up with lips and teeth and whispers of  _please, please, please, don't stop_.  
  
When Mr Padalecki slides his thumb over Jensen's cheekbone, pulling his mouth away while Jensen tries to cling on, lips trembling, teeth refusing to give Mr Padalecki's wet, thick tongue up, when Mr Padalecki draws back and just stares at Jensen with soft eyes, rests his big, hot body on top of Jensen so that his nipples press right into Jensen's, everything is so perfect - so wildly, crazily perfect - that Jensen can't help his body from jerking, toes curling, lips parting, scream building in his throat and ripping right out of him while he comes in his pants.  
  
He's trembling when he stops filling his shorts with come, stops getting his own seed all over his thighs and balls, and Mr Padalecki is lifting him up carefully, pulling the both of them up so that he's slouching back heavily on the couch with Jensen spilled out all over his lap, their chests heaving and pressing together through sweaty shirts, lips still swollen and aching to swell even more, Jensen's thighs parting a little to stop them from sticking together with his sweat and come.  
  
" _Unnn_ ," Jensen manages, a little out of it, letting his head roll back so he can look up into Mr Padalecki's face - his hair wild, eyes wandering all over Jensen's face - and Mr Padalecki leans down a plants the softest, sweetest kiss on Jensen's sweaty forehead. Jensen's lips still feel fat, heavy, and when he touches at them gingerly, they're so plush -  _Mr Padalecki_ did this to them, kissed them till they swelled - and achey Jensen just wants Mr Padalecki to soothe them with his fingers and lips some more.  
  
"Shitttt," Mr Padalecki sighs instead, and tilts his head back on the couch. "I should not have done that. Shouldn't have done that at all. God, nope, nope, shouldn't have done that. Would you believe me in the slightest if I told you I tripped and fell on your... your mouth?"  
  
He stutters somewhere near the end of the sentence, eyes glued to Jensen's lips. Jensen tilts his head closer to Mr Padalecki's and licks his lips, licks Mr Padalecki's drying spit off them, and Mr Padalecki's hips jerk a little under Jensen, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists at his side, veins rippling.  
  
"Okay," Mr Padalecki is saying now. "Okay, hold on, let's just hold on for a while, buddy. Okay, Jensen? Let's just... talk about it. Firstly, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... taken advantage of you - I mean, okay, let's think about this. Jensen, you're young and you're good-looking. Crazy good-looking. Like, so good-looking it hurts, and I'm rambling - am I rambling? What was I saying?  _Stop_  it, stop licking your lips just for a while, I can't think with that... that  _tongue_ , fuck."  
  
Jensen balances himself on his knees in Mr Padalecki's lap, loops a possessive arm around Mr Padalecki's neck and presses their faces close together. Mr Padalecki goes a little cross-eyed, adorable, with how he's helplessly trying to keep his eyes on Jensen's face. Jensen presses even closer, lets their noses touch, lets his eyelashes flutter against Mr Padalecki's.  
  
He's always measured his attractiveness by the effect he has on men - how long would it take them to spill their seed all over themselves when he rubbed up against them, how many minutes did it take before they caved and slid their hands all over him, can he drive the breath out of a man's lungs just by smiling at him (he can).  
  
"Do you think I'm pretty, Mr Padalecki?" he asks, even though he knows the answer now.  
  
"Well, yeah," Mr Padalecki shrugs, a little awkward, a little like  _duh_ , "I'm old, not blind, Jen. I'm sure everyone tells you you're..."  
  
"I don't care what anyone else says. I've always just wanted to hear it from you," Jensen confides in a whisper and lets his lips press tiny kisses along the side of Mr Padalecki's face, up and down that strong jaw, the jut of his cheekbone, that wide forehead. "Do you love me back?"  
  
Mr Padalecki's body kinda tries to stiffen and slump at the same time, so Jensen soothes his shoulders with gentle hands, lets his fingers run up and down the slope of them, like Mr Padalecki's a spooked horse - which is kinda true, he's so broad and strong and graceful, so beautiful. If Jensen has to break him in, feed him cubes of sugar from his palm and sweet words from his lips, feed Mr Padalecki the soft, dizzyingly hot insides his mouth, his tongue and red lips, before he can saddle Mr Padalecki up and ride him - ride his lap, or strong thigh, or that cock he's been fantasising about for as long as he's been able to masturbate - he'll do it.  
  
"You know how old I am right, buddy? I'm 38, not 28. That's over 20 years between us-"  
  
"I know," Jensen interrupts a little sulkily, "I can do Maths. I'm fifteen, not five."  
  
Mr Padalecki's laughter makes his chest rumble from where it's pressed against Jensen. All Jensen can think of is tasting that laugh in his mouth, gulping it down.  
  
"So I take it you feel better, seeing how you're getting your sass back."  
  
"I feel amazing," Jensen tells him happily, shifting a little to feel his thighs stick together. "I'm all sticky because of you, Mr Padalecki. Please, could I kiss you again? Don't you want my lips again, Mr Padalecki? They're yours, all yours - I can suck you so good, your tongue, your... your cock, I can make you so happy, let you come right inside my mouth and swallow all of you down. Please, may I? May I taste you some more?"  
  
"Fuckkkkk," Mr Padalecki groans, slamming the back of his head down on the top of the couch again. "Jesus  _fuck_. Stop with the slutty Oliver Twist, please. Jen, okay, buddy, look at me. No, not my lips, up here - here, Jen, focus, it's kinda hard for me to talk with your tongue there, and we really have to talk."  
  
It's frustrating how just a few minutes ago, if Mr Padalecki had spoken, his words would have spilled off his tongue right onto Jensen's, that Jensen could have slid their tongues together and molded his replies right back, and now Mr Padalecki has the back of his head pressed into the back of the couch as far as he can go.  
  
It's frustrating how Jensen is sitting there in his dirty shorts and Mr Padalecki is sitting there with the heavy bulge of his erection spoiling the line of his trousers, and he keeps talking about  _it's wrong, buddy, you're too young, maybe you're confused, huh, because we hang out all the time, yeah, that's it! and I know you're a teen, and it's normal for you to be confused, to be trying to figure yourself out, maybe you should look for someone else, someone younger?_  
  
"If you don't want me, just tell me, Mr Padalecki," Jensen says bravely, only he has on his liquid eyes, that little, put-off pout to his mouth that he knows will get him what he wants.  
  
Now that Mr Padalecki's built Jensen's shattered confidence in his own attractiveness back up with every swipe of his tongue, Jensen will get what he wants even if he has to grind his ass against Mr Padalecki's cock until he's teetering on the brink of orgasm, then raise himself right back up and deny Mr Padalecki the chance to spill his seed, do that again and again all night long, until Mr Padalecki is begging for Jensen to let him come, please please please.  
  
"It's not that I don't want you - it's that I... can't? Jen..." Mr Padalecki is saying, sounding mostly unconvinced, while Jensen lets his fingers trail down to Mr Padalecki's chest. God, he can't believe he's touching those firm pecs through Mr Padalecki's shirt, can't believe Mr Padalecki's letting him circle his fingers around those nipples, wow, he's gonna come in his pants again just from the pleasure of being able to press his palm to Mr Padalecki's chest and feel his heart thumping away loudly, quickly, just for Jensen.  
  
"I think you can," Jensen purrs, letting his hand drop to run his knuckles over Mr Padalecki's erection. Mr Padalecki's hips rock up, once, twice, then still. He's sweating horribly now - reduced to a wet, salty mess Jensen just wants to suck into his mouth - so Jensen licks the sweat from his brow and his upper lip, sips all those sweaty droplets down.  
  
"So if you can, is it something to do with me? Is it my ass? Should I work on it?" Jensen asks, peeling Mr Padalecki's hands away from where they're held stiffly to his side, and spreading those warm palms out over his ass, generously lets them cup a cheek each, presses Mr Padalecki's thumbs into his crease.  
  
"No! It's perfect! I mean, it's a nice ass... a good ass. For... walking and things. Oh and putting in jeans. You know, jeans? Definitely not... those shorts, oh god, stop pulling them up, Jen, please," Mr Padalecki is stammering, but his thumbs keep parting Jensen's ass cheeks a little, keep trying to stop from wandering closer and closer to that tightly-puckered hole where Jensen's the hottest.  
  
"I put them in these shorts for you, Mr Padalecki," Jensen tells him, disappointed, looking up from where he's been sliding his shorts up over his sticky thighs. "Just for you."  
  
"...Thank you. Just slap on "Jensen Ackle's ass was the death of him. P.S. Burn those shorts." on my headstone," Mr Padalecki mutters while Jensen mouths his way around his face. "You're just too young, Jensen. By the time you're out of college, I'll be well on my way to 50."  
  
"And I'll still love you. I'll suck every single one of your fingers even if they're all wrinkly, lick any sunspots you get, I'll even let you lay back if you have weak heart, I'll do all the work. I'll ride you and suck you, bounce on your cock for you,"  
  
"Oh god, my son's best friend is a porn star," Mr Padalecki groans.  
  
"I can be your porn star," Jensen offers, eagerly, ridiculously.   
  
"Don't worry, Mr Padalecki, don't be scared. I'll still love you, I've loved you for ten years, even before you got all those wrinkles around your mouth - (thanks, Mr Padalecki mutters) no! I love them, I really do. And I love you, I've loved you for so long. So just touch me, let me touch you, let me show you how good it can be, Mr Padalecki. I can make you like it, make you love it, and want it.  _I_  want it, and I know you've been lonely. You used to go out every second Friday of each month before me and Chris turned 13. And you'd get back late in the morning, with your hair all messy, your mouth all smudged, and I'd find lipstick stains on your dress shirts in the laundry basket when I came over - but you've been working so hard the past 2 years, I haven't seen you out since."  
  
"It's kind of flattering that you've been stalking me, but also really creepy, Jen. You're lucky you're gorgeous," Mr Padalecki says, while Jensen very helpfully helps the man squeeze those giant paws of his around each ass cheek.  
  
"It's because I love you," Jensen tells him mournfully, and Mr Padalecki just sighs and gestures for him to go on.  
  
"So I know how much you need it, need someone to love you - and you have me. I'll make you feel  _so_  good, Mr Padalecki. If you let me, I'll try so hard, make you come your brains out. I'm  _fifteen_ , and you've always been the one to tell me I'm an old soul, that I'm mature for my age, that you can trust to tell me your problems and have me listen and know just what to say. And I've thought about this, about you, for  _years_ , Mr Padalecki. Spent every single waking minute thinking of you. And when I'm not awake thinking about your hair and your laugh and the way you suck at Wii Bowling, I'm asleep busy dreaming of you anyway. I've had so much time to think and sort myself out, work out any confusion - there's no excuse, Mr Padalecki. I've thought of you in the shower, I've put my fingers in me and I've come screaming your name. Put my fingers right up me," Jensen whispers, guiding those one of Mr Padalecki's thumb up, hiking the leg of his shorts a little higher to let that thumb press against the tightly-furled pucker of his hole which clenches a little under the pressure.  
  
"Right here, right up my hole, slid them as far up as they could go and pretended they were yours, so don't tell me I have to think things through when I've done nothing but think about it, dream about it, fantasise about it for ten years."  
  
Jensen loves how nice Mr Padalecki is, how he's never selfish, and always thinks of others first - mostly makes pancakes for breakfast when Jensen's over even though Jensen knows Mr Padalecki likes waffles best, but this game of to fuck or not to fuck has gone on way too long.  
  
His lost confidence, built up over the years by lingering eyes, wrinkled fingers smoothing over his thighs and face, stubble brushing against his lips and nipples and cheeks, and momentarily faltering at the thought that Mr Padalecki might find him unattractive, unappealing, slides right back into place like a key, winding Jensen right back up like a horny clockwork doll with limbs flexible enough to hump up against Mr Padalecki with.  
  
Because everything he needs to know is Mr Padalecki thinks he's pretty, Mr Padalecki kissed him, Mr Padalecki loves him, and would probably kiss him again if it weren't for something as stupid as age - just twenty odd years, hmph, like Jensen would let those two decades get between the both of them.  
  
So Jensen slides his way out of Mr Padalecki's lap, hits the carpeted floor hard on his knees and reaches up to unzip Mr Padalecki's pants.  
  
Mr Padalecki is flailing around a bit, mumbling  _no_  and  _oh, god, I'm going to hell, demons are going to crack my nuts open and feast on them, oh my god_ , reaching out to try to tug Jensen's head away from where he's breathing onto Mr Padalecki's groin.  
  
Jensen slaps one of those hands away gently, looking up to glare. "Behave, Mr Padalecki. You're almost 38, I'm sure you can sit still and behave yourself."  
  
Mr Padalecki whimpers.  
  
Jensen draws Mr Padalecki's cock out of his open fly gently, tenderly, cradling it in trembling palms like it's the most precious treasure ever - and it might as well be with how fervently he's been dreaming of it, chasing after it.  
  
Jensen's dedicated a lot of time to sketching Mr Padalecki's cock out in his imagination, sometimes drooling in the middle of class a little, eyes going a little hazy at the thought of how it's probably as big as the rest of Mr Padalecki. He's wondered about how heavily Mr Padalecki's balls will hang, fantasised about how Mr Padalecki's cock would look curled up against his thighs when he's soft.  
  
He's never actually seen another man's cock up close before, always insisted men keep theirs tucked away under layers of fabric, or he'd walk away, leave them with their balls all twisted up in desire, leaking come all over their stomachs. If every man's cock looks like Mr Padalecki, Jensen's been missing out.  
  
It's much, much bigger than Jensen's and so heavy and thick in his palms, so fat all the way around. The head of it is beautiful - an angry red, curved - and rising up from a mess of wiry hair where the musky smell of Mr Padalecki is the strongest.  
  
Jensen lets his nose skim through all that hair, breathes in deeply and feels a little dizzy with how good it feels. Precome is beading lethargically from the tip of Mr Padalecki's cock, one huge drop trying to fight its way to the slit slow as molasses, so thick and so delicious Jensen wants to lap it up and roll it over his tongue like cream.  
  
Jensen can see the veins winding their way under the skin of Mr Padalecki's cock, ridged, wants to thumb the heaviest vein at the underside of that cock and flick his tongue up and down it again and again, wants to fuck his mouth on that cock and feel the veins rub against the inside of his throat.  
  
Mr Padalecki moans when Jensen runs his cheek over that cock, drags his burning face from base to tip, nuzzles it and noses at it, drags that messy, drooling tip all over hs face so the precome leaves a slick, glossy trail, like melted silver, all over his nose and chin and cheeks.  
  
Jensen lets his tongue poke out a bit, lets the very tip of it dip into the leaking slit at the head of Mr Padalecki's cock. Mr Padalecki's whole body jerks before he collapses back against the couch, boneless, with an expulsion of air that sounds like it's been punched out of him, legs splayed wide open so Jensen can wiggle his way more comfortably right between them, pull those thighs close around him.  
  
It tastes salty, strange - Jensen doesn't know if he actually likes it, maybe he should taste more, sip at the head and suck all that come out.  
  
So Jensen tugs Mr Padalecki's jeans halfway down those heavily-muscled thighs, wraps one hand around the base of that cock, fingers winding their way through the scratchy hair, and kisses the top of Mr Padalecki's cock, finally puts those cock-sucking lips of his to actual use.  
  
That coaxes another dollop of precome out of Mr Padalecki, another ragged moan, makes Mr Padalecki stroke the curve of Jensen's bottom lip with a thumb, press against it. Jensen kisses that thumb, then turns his head away, lets his lips part wider, lets his mouth slide down the length of that cock, a quarter of a way down, sucks hard enough for his cheeks to hollow and the insides of them to rub against the sides of Mr Padalecki's cock.  
  
It's a little different from all the popsicles Jensen's practised on - for one, it's so hot, almost scorching, and it's so wide and fat in his mouth that his lips feel like they'll unravel around Mr Padalecki's cock, so heavy on his tongue, and salty. And it moves - twitches a little, rocks a little back and forth, in and out, with how Mr Padalecki's hips are trying their hardest not to move but failing.  
  
Jensen pulls off it and stares it down, stares it right in its winking eye where its tearing precome, sees his saliva coating it and dribbling down the sides, strings of spit starting to nestle in the hair at the base. He licks the sides of it with broad sweeps of the flat of his tongue, kisses his way up and down it, then parts his lips to let Mr Padalecki's cock right back in.  
  
Jensen's always been a quick learner, but Mr Padalecki's an even quicker study, reactions and expressions so unguarded Jensen feels like his heart is right out there on display. When Jensen does something Mr Padalecki likes, he knows - like how he now knows Mr Padalecki goes a little wild when Jensen looks up at him with his big, green eyes, tearing a little from how hard he's struggling to cram Mr Padalecki's cock into his mouth; how Mr Padalecki loves to see him lap at the tip of his cock like a kitten, making pleased, cooing noises; knows Mr Padalecki's thighs twitch when Jensen tongues that fat, sensitive head.  
  
Jensen threads his fingers through Mr Padalecki's, guides his hands down to hold his head still, makes wanton, pleading noises when Mr Padalecki finally starts lifting his hips up to fuck up into Jensen's mouth, into Jensen's throat, hips moving faster and faster each time Jensen lets his moans vibrate around his mouthful of cock, each time Jensen's throat constricts when he gags a little as Mr Padalecki's cock burrows its way down his throat.  
  
When Jensen wrestles Mr Padalecki's hips down and slides his mouth off, the both of them are a mess. Jensen has tears spilling down his cheek from how hard Mr Padalecki's fucked his throat, how hard and deep he choked Jensen, helpless to stop even as his mouth begged  _I'm so sorry, Jen, oh god, shit, I gotta stop, oh my god, why aren't my hips listening to me, I think you broke me, fuck_ , and there are thick globs of spit all over Mr Padalecki's cock, smeared all around Jensen's mouth.  
  
Jensen nurses the head of Mr Padalecki's cock, lets it rest in his mouth shallowly, milking it with pursing motions of his lips, letting his tongue skim lazily over it. It's probably his favourite part of Mr Padalecki's cock - head like a helmet, the fattest, shapeliest part of him with a perfect slit that keeps letting precome bubble out like it knows Jensen wants more, and more, and more.  
  
Jensen tugs Mr Padalecki's cock out of his mouth again to a disappointed moan, so he pats the sides soothingly, lovingly, holds it flat against his cheek for him to nuzzle and coo at,  _so pretty, nnn, just want to eat you up, suck all the juice out of you_.  
  
"Don't worry, Mr Padalecki. I'll suck all the come out of you another day," Jensen says comfortingly, sliding back up onto Mr Padalecki's lap and feeling that heavy cock knock against his thighs. He runs his hands through Mr Padalecki's hair, pushing a few strands back from where they're plastered to his forehead with sweat and desperation.  
  
Mr Padalecki is holding himself so still, body taut, eyes hooded like Jensen's never seen before. When Jensen kneels up on the couch and tugs his shorts down, over his ass, over his legs, kicks it carelessly off and lets Mr Padalecki get an eyeful of his own blushing cock, sweetly pink, balls already tight, Mr Padalecki's eyes slam shut and he groans like he's dying.  
  
Jensen lines their cocks up, tells Mr Padalecki to  _look at us_ , to look at their cocks pressed against each other, Mr Padalecki's cock so much fatter, its head so much more swollen - so perfect, so much prettier than Jensen's own. He drags the head of Mr Padalecki's cock all over his, gets himself slicked up with Mr Padalecki's pre-come, wraps both his palms around both their cocks, rubbing up and down.  
  
"Want to fuck me, Mr Padalecki? Come inside me? Cus I want you to, want to ride you into the couch, hold you inside me and squeeze you till you come," Jensen says, letting one hand leave their cocks so he can suck on his fingers, so he can lead that slick digits behind him, press them against his hole and coax it open.  
  
"Oh my god," Mr Padalecki replies, eyes wide, gathering Jensen close to him so he can rest his chin on Jensen's shoulder and look down to see Jensen's fingers moving between his ass cheeks, fighting to cram their way up that tiny hole.  
  
Jensen usually fucks himself on his fingers with copious amounts of a cocktail of lube and spit. He likes to take his time, slide one finger after another inside him, spread all that lube around dreamily, likes to feel all of it dribble and drip down his fingers and wrist. He loves to hear the wet noises, the squelching, all the greedy sounds his hole makes as it sucks wet and greedy at his fingers when they withdraw only to burrow their way right back in.  
  
It's a tighter fit right now with just drying spit and precome on his fingers. Jensen can't help the tiny, pained stutters as his fingers burn inside him, rub raw against his walls, but Mr Padalecki's eyes are so dark, so  _hot_ , Jensen will die if he doesn't get that thick cock he's been rolling around in his mouth just before this work its way into him. He has to have it, has to have it now.  
  
He reaches out to grip Mr Padalecki's cock one-handed, his other hand still working frantically between his legs, desperate to open himself up enough to slide his way down Mr Padalecki's cock.  
  
Jensen kneels right over that straining cock, pushes its fat head up against the rim of his hole, a little sloppy but still feeling frighteningly small, just the slightest bit looser - enough to fit a couple of fingers, but perhaps not a cock. But then Jensen's a little beyond caring, keeps rocking his hips down, scrabbling to pull his hole open with two slick fingers, to let Mr Padalecki's cock slide inside him.  
  
It's a little stubborn today, his hole, a little shy, winking open and shut coyly, desperately rippling around the tip of Mr Padalecki's cock like it's trying to wring the come out of it - but never enough to let it pierce him properly.  
  
Jensen whimpers, fingers scissoring inside him, trying to get himself wide open for Mr Padalecki, wanting so badly to fit that cock in him and ride it till he passes out. The muscles in his arm are straining with every twist of his finger, and he leans his forehead against Mr Padalecki's collar bone, panting, grunting, and almost sobbing, begging his body to  _open, open up, I want to feel that cock in me, please_.  
  
"Hey, calm down, buddy," Mr Padalecki says, and his fingers are suddenly  _there_ , tracing the swollen rim around Jensen's jerking fingers.  
  
"I want it so bad, please, Mr Padalecki, need it. Why won't it fit? It won't  _fit_ , and I want it to, please," Jensen almost sobs, and guides one of Mr Padalecki's fingers inside him, twines it in two of his own and fucks himself on all three of them. The angle's awkward, and the rough skin on the pad of Mr Padalecki's finger feels different - amazing, like he's sanding Jensen down gently from the inside.  
  
Jensen lets Mr Padalecki replace Jensen's fingers with his own, lets him pull the hole open with his thumbs, and rub the rim till it softens, till Jensen feels like he's melting open. Mr Padalecki's thumbs sink into him and stretch him. He slicks his fingers up with precome - or the spit Jensen licks right onto them, Jensen's tongue trying to pull those prodding fingers deeper and deeper until he gags a little on the tips - and keeps pressing fingers into Jensen, thrusting them shallowly, then a little deeper, working him open with crooked fingers so Jensen can feel the knuckles scrape against his walls.  
  
He's never had anything up this deep, and these are just Mr Padalecki's sweetly-working fingers, not yet his cock, his beautiful, fat cock. Just thinking about it makes Jensen's own twitch against his tummy.  
  
When Mr Padalecki's knuckled him and scissored him, grazed that spot inside him that makes Jensen shout and his cock spurt pre-come a little, violent, he finally, finally slides his fingers out. Finally places both their hands on his cock - so dark with blood Jensen feels a little ashamed by how selfish his hole was, how long it took to stretch it open, how many touches it begged for before it was finally ready - and Jensen backs up to sit on it, on that pillowy head.  
  
This time, his hole does let Mr Padalecki in, lets Mr Padalecki's cock push through its tender pucker, and Jensen trembles, in an awkward half-squat, poised with just the head of Mr Padalecki's cock in him. Mr Padalecki is rubbing his sides now with gentle hands, telling him  _good boy, easy does it, Jensen, easy_.  
  
Jensen rocks himself down a little, swallowing up a little more of that thick cock, feels Mr Padalecki let out a tiny, pleasured moan. It's such a sweet sound, and Jensen can hardly believe he's the one to milk it out of this big, strong man. So badly wants to hear more.  
  
So he lets his weight drop down, lets Mr Padalecki's cock spear him wide open, force his walls apart, and sits on the entirety of it, clenches it tight inside him, sobbing a little at the pain.  
  
This time Mr Padalecki actually lets out a hoarse shout, spasming on the couch, hands reaching out to grab Jensen by the ass cheeks and topple Jensen forward into his chest, eyes falling shut. He takes a while to recover so Jensen sits there, trying to blink away tears, mouths at Mr Padalecki's nipple instead, at that wildly-heaving chest.  
  
"I said,  _slowly_ , Jen. Oh my god. How was that taking it easy?! Did I tear you?" Mr Padalecki asks, worried, letting his hands rest on Jensen's hips. "Let's lift you up, Jen, make sure you're okay."  
  
But when Mr Padalecki's fingers massage the rim of his hole - spread wide open around Mr Padalecki's cock, already feeling ravaged and sore, and twitching a little with the tremors running through Jensen's body - the man moans a little, wildly.  
  
"Stretched so tight around me, fuck. God, Jensen, just look at this little mouth of yours stuffed full of my cock."  
  
Jensen feels a little better now - starts to realise how he's filled to the brim with that thick cock of Mr Padalecki's, how he can feel the swollen head nestled deep in him, farther up than anything's ever been. Mr Padalecki's cock is twitching inside him - Jensen swears he can feel it pulsing a little, and it's a weird feeling.  
  
Jensen rocks a little, and, oh god, there's something - the ridge of a vein, the jutting curve that separates the pretty head of Mr Padalecki's cock from the rest of the shaft, something, he doesn't really care what - pressing against that sweet spot inside him, the one that makes his cock drool crazily in pleasure. He puts his hands on Mr Padalecki's shoulders, let those broad golden shoulders anchor him, then he slides all the way up, and lets himself drop back down, lets his hips roll and swivel and pull choked sounds right out of Mr Padalecki, lets himself feel Mr Padalecki's balls, that thatch of hair between his thighs, rub against his ass.  
  
Jensen lets his fingers tangle in Mr Padalecki's hair so he can drag his head down onto Jensen's chest, can arch his back to knock his nipples against Mr Padalecki's nose - those stiff peaks which Jensen's rubbed raw all day long. He guides Mr Padalecki's face around his nipples, teaches him where to lick, teaches him to nip down, hard, tells him to kiss them suck them, milk them please, until Mr Padalecki's had enough, until Mr Padalecki pulls back to rest his head on the couch, leaving Jensen's nipples so stuffed with blood sucked greedily to the surface that they feel heavy, that they feel like they bounce a little every time Jensen himself bounces, jiggle a little with every movement he makes.  
  
His thighs ache, the muscles in them bunching as he bounces up and down, as he rolls his hips and clenches his insides, coaxes little grunts and pants and groans from Mr Padalecki. Jensen won't let himself blink, keeps his eyes on Mr Padalecki's face - Mr Padalecki who Jensen's reduced into a squirming mess, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut tightly, hands spasming uselessly around Jensen's hips.  
  
It's so fucking hot, Jensen can barely stand it - he has to lean in and kiss Mr Padalecki on the lips, has to let his whimpers out into that mouth, to feel their breaths mingle and mist. But it's still not nearly enough, not fast enough or hard enough, and Jesen's thighs are starting to cramp with the strain. He pants against Mr Padalecki in frustration, humping his cock against Mr Padalecki's stomach, pleading "Please, faster, please, please, wanna make you come."  
  
He'd always thought sex with Mr Padalecki would be sweet, gentle. Mr Padalecki would place Jensen on his back and prop himself up over him on his elbows, kiss him with each thrust, moan  _love you_  when he came. Sex with him would be careful, tender, polite.  
  
But Mr Padalecki - no matter how adorable, how gentle, how sweet he usually is, how big a goof - is more a beast than a gentleman in bed, Jensen discovers when their lips meet, when Jensen takes the chance to remind Mr Padalecki he loves him, whispers that into his mouth, still suspended halfway on Mr Padalecki's cock. He expects to feel strong thighs under him, and instead finds that cock ripped right out of him so suddenly it feels like he's being stabbed in reverse, like he's being drained, emptied out from the inside, hollow.  
  
Jensen whimpers in loss, hands scrabbling where they've been gouging holes into Mr Padalecki's shoulders, tries to push the man back onto the couch and his gorgeous cock back inside him so he can ride it hard and fast till the both of them are shivering and covered in come.  
  
Instead Mr Padalecki lifts Jensen right off his cock like Jensen weighs nothing at all, like Jensen might as well be a toy, a helpless rag doll, those thick fingers of his clutching so hard at Jensen's hips and sides Jensen knows there'll be bruises, hopes they'll stick around for weeks.  
  
Jensen finds himself spun almost in mid-air, before he's slammed down on his belly, crying out in shock as his cock finds itself rubbing against the scratchy material of the couch. He whimpers at the burn, the friction against the already weeping head of his cock, tries to wriggle his hips back, away from the pain, but he can't move right now - can't do anything but cry out into the couch as Mr Padalecki fucks into him.  
  
Mr Padalecki's giant hand is wrapped around the back of his neck, pinning Jensen down casually, effortlessly so that his face is pressed into the couch, so that all Jensen can do is bite down onto the cushion next to his head as Mr Padalecki knocks his thighs open with his knees, and feeds him the entirety of his cock, the whole seemingly-endless length of it, in a strong thust that knocks all the air out of Jensen's lungs.  
  
Jensen's always been the one in control - he always, always sets the pace, always lets men know when their time is up and he's had enough, always rides them stupid, and leaves them once he's had his fun.  
  
So when Mr Padalecki puts those humongous paws all over him, uses them to spread Jensen's thighs wide open, uses them to clutch Jensen's hips and pull him back into every violent thrust, Jensen's caught off guard - especially because this is Mr Padalecki, the gentle giant who cries watching movies about dogs, and who doesn't really like eating gummy bears because _I can feel their eyes on me, Jen, I feel so horrible chewing on them while they stare at me_.  
  
And yet here he is, being pounded so hard into the couch he's sure the old thing will shatter into pieces under him, and loving it, begging for more, screaming for harder and faster and make me wet, Mr Padalecki, make me drip. Every snap of Mr Padalecki's hips sends his cock piercing up into Jensen, opening him up in tender places, sends it hammering in so high and deep, Jensen's convinced Mr Padalecki wants to stuff it deep enough that Jensen will be spitting Mr Padalecki's come out when he orgasms. His balls slap against the back of Jensen's thigh with each thrust and it starts to feel like he's being spanked - if he looks, he knows he'll be red back there, glowing hot.  
  
And Mr Padalecki's started biting him, gnawing at him, really, teeth dragging around the back of his neck, his back, nibbling hard enough on his ear that Jensen whimpers into the pillow in pain.  
  
When Mr Padalecki notices him chewing desperately on the pillow, almost drowning in his own spit, he tears it away cruelly, mouths the side of Jensen's neck and tells him to scream louder, he's gunna fuck scream after scream out of Jensen, gonna make him come and shout and cry till his throat is sore,  _is this fast enough, Jen, is it deep enough for you, huh_  tells him all of this in this dark whisper Jensen's never, ever, ever heard before, not even when Mr Padalecki got angry at him and Chris for busting the TV with a baseball bat one day back in middle school.  
  
Mr Padalecki is  _filthy_  in bed - positively dirty, scorchingly rough. He palms Jensen's body all over like Jensen belongs to him and he just wants to check everything is in working order - everything's ready to be fucked. His hip snapping back and forth mercilessly while he manhandles Jensen, while he turns Jensen onto his back with his cock is still inside him, so that it spins in him, rubs him everywhere, so good, so amazingly good that Jensen can't help but come.  
  
He comes so hard it feels like his cock and balls are about to turn inside out, comes so violently his seed shoots out of him and hits him square in the face, spurts right out onto his chest and neck, all while he's keening, and sobbing "oh, oh, ohhh" into thin air, wishing Mr Padalecki would lean over and kiss him, swallow the sounds he's making down.  
  
Mr Padalecki just leans close, nonchalant as fuck, and licks the come off Jensen's face while Jensen trembles and whimpers, licks Jensen's come up onto his tongue and feeds it back into Jensen through his mouth, lets Jensen suck his tongue down and keep it in his mouth for a while as Mr Padalecki's hips keep snapping.  
  
He tugs Jensen's limbs every which way, ordering Jensen to  _hold your knees like this, wanna be a good boy for me, Jen? lift your hips higher for me, clamp your thighs around me, come on_ , first splaying Jensen's thighs open wide around his waist, then grabbing Jensen by the back of his knees and folding him right into half so that his knees are pressed tight against his chest, rubbing against his swollen nipples. He makes Jensen hug his knees to himself with his arms, so that he can let his own big hands wander, so he can cup his fingers around the base of his cock, pressing against Jensen's hole so he can feel himself sliding in and out, so he can rub at the rim and hook it with a finger to pull it open, so he can slide that finger inside Jensen, right up against his cock.  
  
Mr Padalecki wriggles his finger, like Jensen's insides are his to rummage through as and when he likes, slides his finger further and further up so he can prod at Jensen's sweet spot, press down on it and flick it hard with the tip of his finger, while his cock is still rocking in and out of Jensen with wet, squelchy noises.  
  
"What a greedy hole, Jen. Just look at it, gobbling down every single thing I've fed it - my fingers, my cock, just wanna let it swallow my fist up one day, wanna seal it up with a butt plug, keep your insides spread open for me, how about it? Maybe get you a playdate one day, let him press his cock into you right next to mine, you gonna take it for me, gonna let two cocks fight their way inside you? Gonna be a good boy for me, suck the come out of me with your hole?"  
  
Jensen tries to sob out a yes from over his knees, but the sound is garbled, broken. It's apparently enough for Mr Padalecki, because he bends forward, leans all his weight on Jensen's knees, almost crushing Jensen into half, and kisses Jensen - kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, sucks all the air right out of his lungs through his mouth, only retreating when Jensen's nearly passed out from lack of it.  
  
Mr Padalecki's hands slide up Jensen's thighs, gripping them and then pulling Jensen backward so that he's curled up like an embryo, his whole back almost off the couch, all the weight resting on the back of his skull, the tense column of his neck.  
  
Mr Padalecki's thrusts grow a little jagged now, more shallow thrusts that rock him back and forth than long strokes in and out, that deep dicking motion that makes Jensen's hole clench needily each time the tip of Mr Padalecki's cock backs out of him.  
  
When Mr Padalecki comes, he roars, rising up to his knees and slapping his balls against Jensen's ass with the last few motions of his hips. And, oh god, Jensen's never felt this before, never felt hot seed spill out of another man's body right into his own, never felt anyone spray hot come inside him ever and fill him up, their dick twitching and stoppering him up, keeping all the come inside him, and the pressure and heat is so good, he kinda passes out, arms falling uselessly to his side and letting his caged knees slip free.  
  
When Jensen comes to, Mr Padalecki is peering at him, cupping his cheek gently, wiping at Jensen's neck and face and body with a warm, wet washcloth, and asking him  _are you okay, jesus, you scared me back there, buddy_.  
  
"Mmmkay," Jensen manages to string together. Oh, he's more than okay, he feels so good and so pleased, so well-fucked with how he's aching deep inside, how when he clenches his hole he can feel wetness trickling from it, can still feel how thick Mr Padalecki's cock had been, how it spread him open and held him open without mercy, how it had plundered him and stole its pleasure from him, left him full of its seed.  
  
Mr Padalecki gently spreads his thighs and wipes them down, all that sticky drying come, runs the cloth lightly around Jensen's hole, scratching at his rim and making it bloom open without Jensen's permission, making it pulse open and shut, desperate to drag Mr Padalecki's fingers right back in - drag the cloth in along with them, anything as long as it gets fed.  
  
Mr Padalecki rubs at his stomach softly, pressing down a little, spreads the cloth out under Jensen and tells him to push, to empty himself out, it's gotta be uncomfortable, huh? Jensen does that half-heartedly, rocking his hips slightly and clenching his hole open and shut lazily, feels some of Mr Padalecki's come trickle out, then tells Mr Padalecki  _please, let me keep your seed in me_ , and places his palm over Mr Padalecki's on his belly to link their fingers.  
  
Jensen manages to gather just enough strength for him to tilt his head up for a kiss. Mr Padalecki willingly obliges, licking him open gently and sucking softly on Jensen's lower lip - sweet as ever, with those gentle eyes and that wide grin, like he hadn't almost broken Jensen into half, almost fucked his way into, and right back out of Jensen's body just a while ago.  
  
"Love you," Jensen tells him, whispers against those lips.  
  
He feels the grin unfurl even wider, knows Mr Padalecki has to be dimpling now, irresistible, but all Jensen needs to hear is Mr Padalecki whispering right back, "Love you too, Jen. Like I ever stood a chance against you", before he seals his lips over Jensen's again, lets Jensen wrap his arms and legs around him, clinging like a monkey, trying to shimmy his way up Mr Padalecki and already starting to rub his dick against that hard stomach.  
  
"You're gonna be the death of me, buddy, gonna break my dick right in half. This is why the 20 years had me worried, you know," Mr Padalecki tells him, but it gets lost in the kiss, swallowed up somewhere among their rolling tongues, completely forgotten later on when Jensen starts coaxing moans out of Mr Padalecki, when Mr Padalecki pounds screams out of Jensen in retribution.  
  
Jensen can't remember falling asleep, but when his eyes blink open the next time he can remember, sunlight is pouring through the windows, slanting over them where they're still curled up on the couch.  
  
Jensen's head is lying on Mr Padalecki's arm, the kitchen tablecloth wrapped around their bodies tightly, their legs lying together underneat, sweaty, in a tangled mess, and Mr Padalecki's cock is kinda lying really nicely in the crease of Jensen's ass, hardening a little every time Jensen moves back against it. Jensen clenches his ass cheeks around it, wants to fuck the crease of his ass on that dick as Mr Padalecki comes awake, muttering  _huh, what, what's happening_  confusedly before that morphs into  _oh my god, Jen, my dick is gonna fall off one day, and then what will you do_ , and Jensen so just wants to get fucked again, even though his hole feels a little puffy still when he clenches it, even though Mr Padalecki probably broke it in last night, riding it hard and wild.  
  
Mr Padalecki starts nuzzling at Jensen's neck, unwrapping the tablecloth from around them, his dick filling up quickly with blood and his hips already squirming against Jensen, oh god, how perfect was that, please, please let him get fucked again.  
  
Except Chris' voice comes floating right out of the kitchen, before Chris himself ambles out onto the living room, carton of milk in hand.  
  
"Morning, sunshines! Had a good night, huh, dad? Nabbed yourself a slice of hot virgin pie, eh? So now that you got yourself a pretty new wife, how about getting me a new guitar and- ...what the fuck, you guys, what the fuck?  _Seriously_ , dad, again? Seriously, what, did you not fuck the jailbait juice out of your system all night long? I didn't sleep in the car last night to come home to front row seats at your creepy fuckathon, jesus fucking christ! And, oh my god, Jensen Ackles, you spit that cock right of your ass right now before I superglue that slutty hole of yours shut. I  _swear_  to god-"  
  
Well. Almost perfect.


End file.
